


Completely and Utterly

by katierosefun



Category: Jane Eyre (2011), Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mutual Pining, Romantic Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9478475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katierosefun/pseuds/katierosefun
Summary: [modern setting]Her hands didn’t shake.A small part of her thought that was wrong somehow—in such dramatic moments like these, she figured, one’s hands ought to shake. Her eyesight should be blurry. Her heart should be beating at a hundred beats a minute. Her mind should be racing, racing, racing to keep up with the rest of her body.And yet, only a numbing calm fell over Jane.Her clothes—the grey, black dresses she was always fond of wearing, not the bright, vivid garments Rochester bought for her—went into Jane’s suitcase in quick succession. She ignored the jewelry that sat on her dresser. That belonged to Rochester, not her.Nothing in this place belonged to her.





	

_Her hands didn’t shake._

_A small part of her thought that was wrong somehow—in such dramatic moments like these, she figured, one’s hands ought to shake. Her eyesight should be blurry. Her heart should be beating at a hundred beats a minute. Her mind should be racing, racing, racing to keep up with the rest of her body._

_And yet, only a numbing calm fell over Jane._

_Her clothes—the grey, black dresses she was always fond of wearing, not the bright, vivid garments Rochester bought for her—went into Jane’s suitcase in quick succession. She ignored the jewelry that sat on her dresser. That belonged to Rochester, not her._

_Nothing in this place belonged to her._

\--

“Don’t forget to read the next two chapters for tomorrow!” Jane called over the din of scraping chairs and shuffling papers. “And remember to get permission slips signed for the field trip coming up!” There was a brief chorus of “yes, Miss Eyre” before the bell rang, and then Jane was all alone in the classroom.

Well, almost alone.

“Relieved the day’s over?”

Jane swept up the pile of papers sitting at her desk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, St. John,” she replied lightly. She only caught a glimpse of the top paper—Alice Wood, it seemed, had forgotten to write the date again. Her handwriting was improving, though—Jane could actually distinguish her _v_ s from her _r_ s. Paper-clipping the papers together, Jane tucked the pile into her bag and turned to find her cousin standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and expression as cynical as ever.

“You don’t mean to tell me that you actually _like_ working here, do you?” St. John asked incredulously.

“I _do_ mean to tell you that,” Jane responded, shouldering her bag. “Though I can’t recall why that should bother you so much.”

“No one honestly enjoys being an elementary school teacher, Jane,” St. John said, sidestepping so Jane could pass through the classroom door. Following her down the hallway, he continued, “I know that Mary and Diana would rather do anything besides teach children how to multiply and divide.”

“You’re right,” Jane said over her shoulder, “they’d rather teach children how to appreciate the joys of German literature.”  

She heard St. John scoff. “You’re not being serious.”

“I am, actually,” Jane replied, still not looking at her cousin. “Honestly, St. John—there’s nothing wrong with teaching. It’s a good thing to do.”

“If you were interested in doing something _good_ , then I’m sure you can find that same satisfaction in—”

Jane stopped in her tracks with a sigh. “For the last time, St. John, I’m not interested in being a missionary.”

“Why _not_?”

“Because I wouldn’t like it,” Jane answered. “I’d never survive.”

“You can survive a group of young children struggling with their cursive, but you can’t survive an—”

“Extremely long, tiresome trip halfway around the globe completely cut away from civilization?” Jane interrupted. “No, I _don’t_ think I can survive.”

“You underestimate yourself,” St. John continued, refusing to be deterred. “You could certainly—”

 _Yes,_ Jane thought, relieved, as her phone went off. Shooting St. John a smile—which she did not put any sincerity into—she lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Are you almost here yet?”

“Sorry, Diana,” Jane replied, re-shouldering her bag. “I’ll meet you at the house in a few minutes. I still have to get to the car.” A beat passed, and then Jane added, “St. John was just telling me about all of my qualifications in becoming a missionary.”

“Not that again,” Diana sighed. “I thought we told him that you didn’t want to join him.”

“I _did_ tell him that,” Jane said, shooting St. John a pointed look. Her cousin let out a huff, but all the same, he walked ahead to the school doors. As Jane followed him, she continued, “But I’m sure he’ll stop trying to persuade me soon. It’s only been—”

“A few weeks?” Diana offered.

Jane winced. “Well, I’m hopeful that he’ll stop.” She smiled as St. John (grudgingly) opened the door for her. “I refuse to let something as petty as this get between all of us,” she added, giving St. John a slight nod. He only looked at the space behind her shoulder, but Jane could have sworn she saw his expression softening. High time, too—Jane knew that St. John would tire eventually. The only thing that kept him from giving in completely, Jane suspected, was his pride—but she could wait for that.

“We’ll be home soon,” Jane told Diana as St. John and she made their way to the parking lot. “Don’t start the movie without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Diana replied. “Can’t make the same promise on the food, though.”

“Oh, please—you wouldn’t dare.”

“Hurry up, then— _no, Mary, we can’t start the movie yet!_ ”

Jane grinned, putting her phone in her bag. She looked over at St. John, who was standing by the car with raised eyebrows. “Seems like Mary’s already getting impatient,” she told St. John, getting into the car. “And Diana’s fending her off all by herself.”

“What do they want to watch again?” St. John asked, sliding into the seat next to Jane.

“Something German, I think.”

“No surprise there.”

Jane smiled again, though it was more to herself than to St. John. Though he might find Diana and Mary’s interests below him, Jane absolutely admired the women for it. In the short months she had stayed with them, Jane had found herself occupied by all that Mary and Diana wanted to do – whether it was painting (which mostly involved Jane teaching and Diana trying to mimic her style) or watching a foreign film or something as simple as walking through the parks.

“You’ve got a following,” St. John said suddenly, pointing out the window. Jane craned her neck briefly to see that indeed, some of her students were waving frantically from the playground. Jane felt a warmth spread from her chest to the tips of her fingers as she lifted her hand to wave back. The children, encouraged by this tiny gesture, only waved with more vigor.

“They’re so excitable,” St. John mused, and Jane cast him a sidelong glance.

“What?” he asked, genuinely looking bewildered by Jane’s look. “It’s true.”

Jane sighed, pulling out of the lot. “Happy children are good children, St. John,” she only said.

“I didn’t say they weren’t,” St. John protested.

Jane shook her head, and for perhaps the thousandth time since she moved in with her cousins, she thanked God that she had not taken St. John’s offer to join him on a three-month long trip with him. However, if St. John had noticed Jane’s exasperation, he didn’t bother making it known.

“We need to make a stop,” he said instead as Jane started down the road. “I forgot to pick up the supplies Diana wanted for her class. Cotton balls, I think she said they were. That won’t be too much trouble, would it?”

“No,” Jane responded. “Sweet of you to pick things up for Diana, though. I could have done it, if she asked me.”

“You were busy with grading classwork when Diana was looking for someone to pick the materials up for her,” St. John told her. After a beat, he added, “And she didn’t want to bother you since it was—” He shot a quick glance at Jane before clearing his throat. “Exactly a year since you—”

“ _Yes,_ St. John,” Jane interrupted quickly, pressing a little harder on the gas pedal. She ignored the disproving look St. John gave her. “Look—the store’s coming up in a few minutes. What was it you said Diana wanted again? Cotton balls? I heard she was going to put up some kind of arts and crafts project for her students—you should get glitter. Children love glitter. And stickers. I’m sure Diana will appreciate it.”

“Jane.”

Jane tightened her grip on the wheel, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “There’s a grocery store nearby, right?” Jane continued, forcing her voice to remain light. “I think I’ll go get some cookies. Seems fitting for movie night and all.”

“You still miss him.”

The warmth that Jane had felt a few moments ago had all but dissipated. She felt instead something cold and heavy lodge into her stomach. Her fingers felt numb from squeezing the wheel so hard. _Odd_ , she thought to herself. She felt she should be crying right now—at the very least, she should give some kind of response to St. John.

 _Odd_ , she thought again.

She didn’t feel anything.

Jane heard St. John give a long, weary sigh, as though _he_ was the one who was suffering. “Jane,” he said in exaggerated patience, “you _do_ realize it’s been a solid _year_ since you’ve last seen him. Rochester—oomph!”

Jane had pulled up in front of the store. She had never been more relieved to come to the almost-full parking lot with its many shopping carts and seagulls. Across the lot, Jane saw a couple get out of their car. A woman, Jane noted dully, with a man getting out on the other side. Jane watched as the two shot each other warm smiles, and then the man reached into the car and helped a little girl climb out of the passenger seat. The girl had her hair up in a pretty pink ribbons.

Jane blinked—but no, the ribbons weren’t pink at all. They were white.

For some reason, Jane didn’t feel better by that.

“You go get the cotton balls,” Jane heard herself saying as she undid her seatbelt. “I’ll get the cookies.”

“Jane—”

“ _Go_ ,” Jane interrupted, practically ripping the keys out of the ignition. “We shouldn’t keep Diana and Mary waiting.” Not bothering to wait for St. John’s reply, Jane pushed the car door open. She marched— _marched_ —across the parking lot, car keys squeezed in her hand.

 _One whole year,_ Jane thought. _One whole year._ She felt the grip on her keys loosen.

“I want the chocolate cookies—can we get the chocolate cookies?”

Jane looked over to see the couple from before with their child. The girl was holding her mother’s and father’s hand, skipping between the two in the way all loved children skipped. “Can we get the sprinkle ones, too? Can we? Please?” the little girl wheedled, leaning into her mother’s side.

“You won’t be able to eat dinner,” her father pointed out.

“Of course we’ll get the cookies,” the mother said, giving her husband slight smile.

“Traitor,” the father groaned, but all the same, he beamed at his wife.

They all entered the store—Jane just a little ways behind them. She was close enough to hear the father call her daughter’s name (Alex), learn about the trip to grandmother’s house, and that the mother was expecting another child soon.

She should have just left the store. She should have just gone back out to the parking lot after buying the cookies—she should have just called St. John for him to hurry back to the car.

Instead, she stayed even after buying the cookies. She stood by the front doors of the store, pretending to take interest in the tabloids while the family continued to bustle around with their groceries. The little girl was begging her father for a piggy-back ride, while the mother was sneaking a quick photo of the pair. Catching his wife trying to take a photo, the father reached out and playfully nudged the phone away. The three of them started laughing, continuing with their shopping trip without even the slightest notice to Jane, who was starting to lean forward.

“You’re so pitiful,” Jane muttered to herself, quickly drawing back. “What, you think that’s all great? Really? Is that all it takes?” She looked down at the tabloids—something about a scandal, as usual. A divorce gone wrong—the man taking on a new wife.

_Wasn’t that what it always was?_

“See, _this_ is why you’re here,” Jane said, turning on her heel. “You can’t get tangled up with _that_.” She nodded to herself. _That’s right,_ she assured herself. _You’re happy. Absolutely happy. And you’re surrounded by your family, and you have a wonderful job, and things are just fine._

“Was it hard to find the cookies?” St. John asked when Jane finally came to the car. “You came out later than I thought you would.”

“I was just considering the choices,” Jane answered, unlocking the doors. She slid into the seat without looking at St. John. She didn’t start up the car until he had put on his seat belt.

“Well,” he said, tossing the cotton balls in the passenger’s seat, “did you find what you were looking for?”

Jane lifted her shoulders. “It’ll have to do,” she said, and the two lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive home.

\--

“That was a good movie,” Diana yawned, stretching out her long limbs from across the couch. “What time is it?”

“It’s late,” came Mary’s muffled response. Jane lifted her head wearily from her chest and found, not to her surprise, that her cousin had half of her face buried into a pillow. Jane was tempted to do the same, but instead, she forced herself off the couch and started to clear away the plates.

“I love weekends,” Mary groaned, rolling over on her back. “I’m going to sleep here.”

“No, you’re not,” Diana replied, gently tugging Mary up to her feet. “Come on—Jane’s cleaning up. We should help.”

“It’s fine,” Jane replied over her shoulder as she made her way into the kitchen. “You two should go up to bed now.”

“Oh—well, at least let St. John help,” Diana called after her. Jane started to protest, but before she could, she heard the clatter of more plates coming her way—St. John had, of course, already started on his new duties. Jane let out a quiet sigh. All she wanted was some quiet time to herself, but still, St. John came in.

“Hand them here,” Jane said, turning on the faucet. “I’m just going to give them a quick wash before heading up to bed.”

“We should have used paper plates,” St. John said, placing the plates on the counter.

“Next time, we’ll remember,” Jane agreed. She took the first plate and placed it under the steady stream of water. She cringed at the sudden heat and quickly adjusted the handles. She looked over her shoulder. St. John was still there. Resisting the urge to sigh again, Jane turned back to the sink and said, “You can leave now, St. John. There’s fewer plates than it seems.”

“Are we not going to talk about what happened earlier today?”

“There it is,” Jane muttered, scrubbing a little harder at the next plate.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” St. John snapped.

“You know _exactly_ what that means!”

“Fine—since you won’t say it, _I_ will,” St. John said, jabbing a finger in Jane’s direction. “You’re still thinking about Rochester, aren’t you?” When Jane didn’t respond, he threw his hands up in the air. “How _can_ you?” he asked, exasperated. “ _Everyone_ knows now about what happened with that _wife_ of his—and you— _you,_ of all people, should know how he is—”

“I’m not going to talk to you about this,” Jane said, turning on the faucet again. “It’s not something you should concern yourself with.”

“You’re completely blinded, Jane,” St. John continued, his face turning red. “And what are you doing now? Certainly not anything _meaningful_ —”

St. John was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing.

 _Right on time,_ Jane thought, and without so much as a word to St. John, she walked across the kitchen to pick it up. Lifting it to her ear, she asked, “Hello?”

“Hello?”

Jane’s breath caught.

“Hello? Is this the right number? Is there a Jane Eyre there? Is this—” There was a sigh from the other end. “Dammit,” the voice muttered. Then, louder, Jane heard, “I’m losing my mind.”

There was a click—the phone call was over.

“Who was that?” St. John asked, arms crossed over his chest.

Jane stared down at the phone in her hand.

“ _Jane_.”

 _One whole year,_ Jane thought.

And he was calling for her.

Why would he call for her?

Jane slowly set down the phone. She didn’t hear St. John calling her name as she went up the stairs, nor did she hear the worried whispers from Mary and Diana when she entered their bedroom. The image of the family from before flashed through her mind— _they_ had been happy. _They_ had all been in love.

Jane found herself squeezing her hands together. There had once been a time, hadn’t there? When someone else had taken her hand. When she had been smiling just as that mother had.

“Are you alright?”

Jane looked up. Diana was watching her, concern evident on her face. “You’ve gone pale,” Diana noted slowly. “Did something happen?”

“We heard the phone ringing,” came Mary’s half-awake voice. “You picked up, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Even to herself, Jane’s voice sounded far, far away—miles and miles away. (Miles and miles and miles away to a different house—to a different person—to a different home.) “Someone called.” She looked back down at her hands. “I think,” she said softly, “someone was looking for me.”

“Who?” This time, it was both Diana and Mary who asked.

Again, Jane imagined the young couple standing before her. Even still, she could picture perfectly what they would be doing now—the young pair would be nestled together in bed, no doubt, with their fingers entwined and foreheads tilted ever-so-slightly towards each other. They’d wake up tomorrow morning, and they’d first giggle over ungraceful morning breath and then they’d try to stay in bed for just a little longer—just to wait for the sunlight to properly filter into the room. And God, Jane knew that they’d be looking at each other all over again, the husband thinking that he was the lucky one, the wife thinking the same.

“I need to take a trip tomorrow,” Jane said, turning to her cousins. “Would you mind?”

Little lines of worry creased the space between Diana’s eyebrows. “Well—of course not,” she said hastily, “but what for, Jane?”

Jane slid under the covers of her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She had done this before, she thought—a year ago, she had been staring up at the ceiling with the same dazedness, only then, the daze had been brought on under different circumstances. She imagined her hand holding onto someone else’s again.

Then, with her voice coming out louder and stronger than she had expected, Jane said, “I need to find someone.”

\--

“How long do you think you’ll be away?” Mary asked as they waited for the train to arrive. It was a surprisingly bright day, with the sun unashamedly alight and the sky cloudless. It was as though the weather, too, had determined its alliance with Jane.

“Four days, at least,” Jane replied, managing a quick smile. “I’ll call if the stay goes on for longer.” There was the sound of rumbling—the train was coming closer.

“Well,” Diana said, reaching over to squeeze Jane’s hand, “even though he didn’t make it, St. John wishes you his best.”

“I know,” Jane replied. “He sent me a message.”

“Not in person?” Mary asked, bewildered.

Jane shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not,” she answered, inwardly wincing at the argument last night. Shaking her head slightly to herself, Jane added, “But it doesn’t matter right now. He’ll come around sooner or later.”

“Of course he will,” Diana said warmly. As the train came to a slow stop in front of the three women, she squeezed Jane’s hand again. “Have a safe trip.”

“I will,” Jane promised. She leaned over to her cousins for a quick hug—and with another smile and wave, Jane boarded the train.

\--

Jane watched the fields of Morton blur away from the windows as the train sped along. When she had first come here, she had been struck by how vast and empty the space was. No trees or gardens or birds—just grass, some in drier clumps than others. And as these fields faded from view, a certain distantness blanketed over Jane. It wasn’t as though she was willing to forget Morton, nor her experiences there, and yet, as the train left it behind, Jane, too, felt as though she was ending something. Not all of it, of course—but she felt as though she had bookmarked that little place.

For the rest of the trip, Jane alternated between staring out the window and checking her phone, as though by some miracle, _he_ might call again. (Which was highly unlikely, especially since the call had been directed to the house, not to her personal cell. She had changed her number, so he wouldn’t know it.)

It wasn’t until Jane saw the greener plains and brighter flowers did she pay any attention to the station stops. _Almost there,_ a small voice whispered at the back of Jane’s mind. _Just a little longer now._

When the train doors opened, Jane was the first one to run out.

\--

She had never been athletic as a child, but she had certainly been strong; that strength carried her now.

Jane made her way up the long driveway—

_(“Who are you?” he asked, staring up at her. “I’ve never seen you in these parts before.”_

_Jane didn’t put down her hand. “I’m the new tutor for the girl who lives here,” she replied. “Adele Fairfax?” She leaned a little forward. “Are you hurt?”_

_“Isn’t it obvious?” the man asked, though not snappishly. “You said you were the new tutor?”_

_“Yes,” Jane responded. The man’s eyes widened briefly—and then, in a lower tone, he muttered, “Of_ course _, the tutor.” He looked back up at Jane. “Well, then. Help me up.”)_

Jane came to a short stop.

The house was in ruins.

Jane froze, her eyes roving over the blackened porch and the crumbling walls. There was empty space where there once had been grand windows—there were skeletons of what had once been furniture—there was nothing when there had been once been almost everything.

In halted, uneven steps, Jane walked toward the doorframe. She felt a hard surface under her feet, and her veins ran cold. She looked down, fearful of what she might find—but to her relief, she had just stepped on fallen bricks.

_(“What took you so long?” Mrs. Fairfax asked, quickly taking away Jane’s coat. “I was about to send someone after you!”_

_“I—” Jane never got to finish her sentence. Mrs. Fairfax waved her hand, saying, “Mr. Rochester—Adele’s guardian—has returned just now. He wants to see you.”_

_“See me?” Jane asked, bewildered. “When did he—”_

_“He came just now,” Mrs. Fairfax interrupted. She gave Jane a small shove. “Hurry, now! He’s in a bad mood. Slipped on some ice, he said. If I had known he was coming, I would have…” She turned to Jane, eyes widening. “What are you still doing here?” she asked, giving Jane another shove. “Go! He’s in the sitting room!”)_

Jane made her way through the entrance (or what had been the entrance) and into the ghost of the sitting room. There was nothing left—a few scorched tapestries, and the burned remains of armchairs.

 _(_ “ _Tell me, Miss Eyre,” Mr. Rochester said, his eyes flicking up to meet Jane’s. His eyes were sharp—fierce, made even more so in the light of the fireplace. “Do you find me handsome?”_

_Jane didn’t blink. “No, sir.”_

_She thought she saw a small twitch in Mr. Rochester’s lips, but as quickly as it came, it disappeared. “You’re honest,” he said, leaning into his armchair._

_Jane lifted her chin. “I didn’t mean any offense.”_

_“No, no—go on.” He brushed aside his dark hair, revealing his forehead. Jane caught a few grey hairs just barely peeking from the otherwise burnt-brown locks that tumbled just barely over his hand. Eyes wide, he asked, “Do I look like a fool to you now?”_

_“Hardly,” Jane replied dryly. “Maybe a philanthropist.”_

_“There’s that bluntness again.” Mr. Rochester dropped his hand, turning a little ways to the fire. There was a short pause, and then he said suddenly, “There’s not too much company in the house.” He gestured towards Jane. “You. Start a conversation.”_

_“Start a conversation? About what?”_

_“About anything.”)_

Jane placed a hand on what should have been the crown of the armchair. It was cold. She didn’t know why she would have expected anything otherwise. Slowly, Jane headed to the former dining room. She eyed the skeleton of the piano—once so grand with its ivory keys and polished black surface now only a rickety structure with broken strings.

Jane fingered a string—it crumbled right then.

_(“Come, Rochester,” Blanche said sweetly, playing out a chord. “Sing with me.”_

_“Your wish is my command,” Rochester replied with such a soft smile that Jane felt her heart drop. She cast a quick look around the room to see if anyone was watching her—and to a mix of both her relief and disappointment, no one was. All eyes were fixated only on Rochester and Miss Ingram—Blanche Ingram, who was beautiful and talented and everything Jane was not._

_Silently, Jane stood and started to make her way to the doors. She was tired, anyways. There was no reason for her to be there—certainly not if Blanche was keeping Rochester busy. Jane had only just started to make her way up the stairs when she heard the dining room open and close just as softly._

_Jane wasn’t sure what compelled her to look—but look, she did, and she found herself face-to-face with Mr. Rochester himself. Too soon, Jane felt her heartbeat stutter. She wondered if Rochester heard it, and for a moment, Jane wished he did._

_“Jane.”_

_“Yes.”_

_Mr. Rochester shifted his weight from foot to foot—out of embarrassment or otherwise, Jane wasn’t sure. She shouldn’t’ care. Why_ did _she care?_

_“Are you…alright?”_

_Jane stared at the space behind Mr. Rochester’s shoulder. “I’m fine.”_

_“Why didn’t you come talk to me?”_

_Jane flicked her eyes to meet Mr. Rochester’s. He looked genuinely confused—and for a moment, Jane fanaticized telling him_ exactly _why she hadn’t been able to come talk to him. Instead, she replied somewhat coolly, “You seemed busy.”_

_Mr. Rochester’s brow furrowed together. “You don’t look well.”_

_“I’m fine,” Jane repeated, focusing her attention once more on the space behind Mr. Rochester’s shoulder._ Go back to Blanche, _she thought._ Go back to where you belong. _At the thought, an uncomfortable heat welled up behind Jane’s eyes. She blinked a few times, willing the tears to retreat._

_Mr. Rochester, to Jane’s dismay, didn’t miss a beat. “You’re crying,” he said softly, reaching forward—but just as his hand lingered over Jane’s cheek, it fell limply to his side. He cleared his throat. “I know why you’re leaving,” he said in a quieter tone. “And…if you feel so inclined, you can leave still.” He tilted his head toward Jane. “Good night, my—” He stopped. He nodded only once at Jane, and then, spinning on his heel, he left for the dining room.)_

As though she was in a trance, Jane walked back out of the house. It had only been a year, hadn’t it? Surely, this couldn’t have happened while she was gone. This _couldn’t_ have.

“But he called me,” Jane whispered. “And I came.”

 Her feet carried her back to the gardens. There were weeds growing amongst the beds of flowers—and though they no longer grew in their neat, enclosed bunches, the flowers seemed, ironically, more beautiful than ever.

 _Cruel,_ Jane thought, turning away from the flowers. She made her way into the orchard instead. And at its very center, of course, was a tree, split and in ruins. At least, it _had_ been in ruins before—now, there remained a few springs of green curling out of the ruined trunk.

 _(Jane stared at Mr. Rochester. “That’s not funny,” she said, bunching and re-bunching her hands. She searched Mr. Rochester’s face for the slightest bit of humor—but he looked more serious than Jane had ever seen him. She tried again. “You’re engaged to Miss Ingram,” she pointed out. “You two had—” She sucked in a quick breath. “You two_ are _in love.”_

_Mr. Rochester stared back, bewildered. “Whoever said I was in love with Miss Ingram?” he asked._

_“_ You _did,” Jane replied, letting her hands fall to her sides. “You—before—you were going on about how wonderful it would be to have a bride, and, well,” she let out a short laugh, “it all fits, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t leave her side. And now you’re asking me to_ marry _you? I don’t know_ what _your idea of humor is, but I don’t find this even a_ bit _funny. In fact, I—”_

 _“Jane,” Mr. Rochester interrupted, “Blanche doesn’t love me and frankly, I don’t love Blanche.” He took a few tentative steps forward, his hands outstretched. “Jane,” he said, “I want_ you _by my side. I love_ you. _”_

_“Me.” Jane turned her eyes upward. She counted the branches of the tree dangling above her before looking back at Mr. Rochester. “I have no one. No parents. No money. Nothing to offer you.”_

_“None of that_ matters, _Jane,” Mr. Rochester said earnestly, grabbing Jane’s hands. Jane looked down at their clasped hands—his touch was warmer than she thought it would have been._

_“Do you really love me?” Jane asked. She gripped Mr. Rochester’s hands tighter. Drawing in a shaky breath, she whispered, “You need to say it. Say it, and I’ll believe you.”_

_She felt Mr. Rochester’s forehead bump lightly against hers._

_“I love you.”_

_She closed her eyes._

_“I love you. Jane, I love you.”_

_She lifted her face ever so slightly, feeling—_ reaching _—until she felt another pair of lips brush her very own. She heard the wind rustle the branches hanging above her—heard the distant rumble of thunder—but she paid no attention._

Yes, _she thought._

_“Yes.”)_

“What are you doing here?”

Jane spun around, shocked to hear a voice beside her own.

A man in a pair of sneakers and jogging shorts was frowning at Jane, earbuds dangling in one hand and phone in the other.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Jane managed to ask, ignoring the shakiness in her voice. “This is private property.”

“Not much property left, if you ask me,” the man snorted. He waved a hand wildly at the ruins of the house. “Were you just in there? Do you know how dangerous it is? God, lady—you could have been hurt! Bricks have been falling left and right in there!”

“What happened here?” Jane only asked. “How did this happen?”

The man balked at Jane. “You mean to tell me that you didn’t know?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, of course I didn’t know,” Jane replied, trying to keep her voice level. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

The man lifted his hands in surrender. “Sorry, lady,” he said, though he didn’t look apologetic at all. He nodded at the house. “Crazy fire happened a few months ago. The dude who lived here—pretty wealthy, but he was a bit of a nut. Shut in for a while.”

Jane felt something lump into the back of her throat. “That doesn’t explain what happened to the house.”

“I’m getting there,” the man responded. “The dude had some former wife—almost divorced. She refused to sign the papers, and she got a little…well, it was rumored she was a little off, anyways.” He lifted his shoulders. “She set the whole place on fire. The guy living here managed to get his household out, but he…” He winced.

Jane’s veins ran cold. “What?” she demanded. “What happened to him?”

“Something fell on him,” the man replied. “Lost a hand. I mean, the doctors got him one of those glove-things, but…” He shook his head, his expression softening into a more sympathetic one. “You know how things like this goes.” He cast a sad look at the house. “Dude got himself blinded, too. Pretty bad, huh? Too bad, to be honest—”

“Where is he now?” Jane interrupted.

The man scratched his head. “I dunno—there was something about in the papers. Living in…a private estate a few towns away from here. Fernburrow? Nah, that wasn’t it…Fernhaven? No—wait!” He snapped his fingers. “Ferndean! That’s what it was called—Ferndean. Guy decided to lock himself up in there.”

A new strength filled Jane. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I appreciate it.” With that, she started down the driveway.

“Don’t think about visiting the guy!” the man called after her. “He doesn’t accept any visitors, you know!”

“I’m not a visitor!” Jane shouted over her shoulder.

\--

She found him where he would always be—in the garden. His hair was the same rich, sable color that it had been the year before, with perhaps only a little more grey visible in both the locks and the new beard he wore. His eyes—so dark and so fierce they once had been—were staring at nothing and everything at once, so different from the look they had before. And yet, despite all the changes, Jane’s heart only ached more.

She didn’t bother quieting her steps as she made her way towards him. Instantly, Mr. Rochester’s head lifted up. “Mary?” he called. “Is that you? I told you not to bother me.”

Jane was surprised that her voice was still working. “It’s not Mary,” she whispered. She slowly made her way in front of Mr. Rochester until she was only a few breaths away. _Recognize me,_ she thought. _Please, please know me._

Mr. Rochester’s face—which was already pale to begin with—whitened. “Not this again,” he murmured. He reached out, his hand trembling. “I’m dreaming again. _Again_.” 

Jane didn’t hesitate at Mr. Rochester’s hand. She twined her fingers around his, saying quietly, “You’re not dreaming.” She gave the hand a small squeeze. “See?”

“This is her hand,” Mr. Rochester whispered. “And her voice—”

“She is all here; her heart, too,” Jane breathed. She brushed her hand against Mr. Rochester’s cheek. “I’m here. Completely and utterly here.”

“Jane,” Mr. Rochester’s voice cracked. “Tell me it’s true. Tell me, and I’ll believe it. _Show_ me, and I’ll believe it.”

Jane stood on the tips of her toes, pressing her lips lightly against the lids of Mr. Rochester’s eyes. “I’m here,” she repeated. “I really am.”

“You are,” Mr. Rochester echoed. “Completely and utterly here.”

\--

_Reader, she married him._

\--

_-fin-_

 

**Author's Note:**

> **I wrote this for my AP Literature and Composition class. The word limit was around 7.5K words and the deadline was January 28, 2017, so excuse the rushing towards the end. I might re-visit Jane Eyre fanfiction in the future, where I might give this story an expansion, but for now, this will have to do. Comments are appreciated!


End file.
